


Seven Days to the Wolves

by funeral_in_carpathia



Category: Gensou Suikogaiden, Suikoden II
Genre: Bromance to Romance, Canon Compliant, Comrades in Arms, M/M, Slow Burn, Tags May Change, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 11:14:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12725553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/funeral_in_carpathia/pseuds/funeral_in_carpathia
Summary: Slowly - like a drop of water carves in stone; after all these years, his edges should have been rounded abundantly by this man. His chest ached, and this time, it was not the poorly scarred wound. This was not a village torched out of a whim; this was the Greenhill forest in flames out of a single bonfire he left unwatched for too long.





	Seven Days to the Wolves

_Never lose eye contact. The sword you are wielding is not a weapon; it is an extension of you, and if you lose it, you lose yourself._

His enemy was tough, as he would have expected. Try as he might, his moves were certainly anticipated, and cleanly countered time after time. This was not like any other warrior he had encountered; he wielded his broadsword with precision and grace, reading him with remarkable patience, and there was a fire in his eyes that drew Seed towards the blade like a moth to that flame.

This was merely warming up, an appetizer before the main course, and the overbearingly sweet dessert. A meal without a dessert was unheard of in the capital, and Seed’s stomach was certainly far from full. He stood on guard, circled his nemesis as if in a dance, their swords facing each other like the hands of a clock. Tick, tock, _clash_ \--

The man lunged forward, and Seed barely parried him, a hair’s breadth away from losing his balance. Never losing eye contact certainly did not equal getting lost in the enemy’s eyes, no matter what state secrets you might hope to pull from their dark depths under a furrowed brow.

He riposted, buying himself time to anticipate the next move as the man recoiled. Where skill and strategy were polished to their fullest, only a relentless barrage of swift, varied attacks would work in his favour; and he struck once, then again, his body no longer registering any of the butterfly touches the foreign blade landed on him.

_Never lose eye contact._

His enemy knocked down Seed’s sword, but Seed was prepared and pulled a knife from its sheath. Now all he had on his side was speed, his reflexes and his nimble legs, to escape the scythe of death swinging towards him. It was now or never, and he went for it with everything he had, ducking right in time to avoid the next blow and to throw his entire body in a reckless tackle.  

The wheel of fortune was in his favour, and he pinned his opponent to the ground and straddled him, the blade of his knife flickering against the man’s throbbing jugular. He breathed in his scent, that of sawdust and sweat, enduring the sharp angles of the man’s hips and belts in the soft flesh of his inner knees. Well fought, but there could only be one winner.

_Never lose eye contact. Not even when you know you have won, for then you are the weakest._

He grinned, and Culgan answered with what could be called a smile with a generous amount of imagination. He had played his part well, throwing in just enough improvisation to make the orchestrated display realistic enough for the gaping spectators – soldiers of the third and fourth armies. Satisfied with both the sport and the performance, Seed withdrew his knife and tossed it on the ground, turning himself towards the iron-clad crowd of his men. Training the troops was but scraps left behind by the generals, but the looks on the soldiers’ faces were as close to a reward as Seed could hope to get out of military life at times of peace, second to only the welcome diversion of sparring with Culgan and, after, drinking with him to erase the memory of whoever lost that time.

“And this, gentlemen, concludes today’s—” The next word he mouthed was gravel as he doubled over from a sudden blow to the tailbone, followed by a low throw sideways.

“Lesson, hmm?” Culgan stood up behind him, the tip of his sword hovering right at the base of Seed’s skull. That was foul play, but, indeed, a valuable lesson for both him and especially for the troops. He had certainly pulled ugly tricks like that to Culgan, too, and some of them at a very inopportune hour. Coughing up dirt, he pulled himself up and dismissed the gaping crowd, leaving only him and Culgan at the centre of the practice arena.

“Think we overdid it?”

“Don’t think so. But I owe you a pair of slacks.”

Seed snorted, a witty retort on his tongue, until he realized that Culgan – for heaven’s sake, the man was almost smug -  indeed owed him a pair of slacks. They had, as per habit, agreed that no punches would be pulled, even if only for educational purposes. He was impressed how Culgan had, so masterfully, grazed the skin of his inner thigh without drawing more than a thin string of blood over the black fabric, let alone having him notice. He could have either castrated him or bled him to death in an instant, but instead, he had chosen to give Seed a chance; and, admittedly, Seed had done pretty good job himself with the bright red blossoming of the skin on Culgan’s neck where his knife had been held.   

“Screw them. Get me a drink instead.” Once, his one and only wish had been to live in the glorious capital, in command but free of responsibility, and now he had grown not to stand the sight of it. To him, L’Renouille was little more than a gilded cage. He felt like he had lived every day thrice before – the sawdust of the practice area, the dreary drills held by General Windamier, the same watered-down claret and bland stew of the supper table – and he wanted to get away. Despite the feeble truce between Jowston and Highland, he could feel the unrest in his bones; he could not quite explain it, but he just knew that something was going on that he would not be made privy to.

Well, then again, life in the capital had its perks, one of them being a stable influx of wine from Kanakan. The barracks had their own wine cellar – second-rate, of course, but still quite decent – that only captains and higher had access to, and, hell, Seed did not remember ever forgetting to claim his rations. Perhaps he could even afford to be a little finicky, now that Culgan owed him and was, in his usual way, immersed in the vast selection before their eyes in the cellar of the barracks. None of it made much difference on Seed’s tongue, but Culgan seemed to have his preferences.

“I don’t get why people keep wine for years. It’s like kidnapping a kid and hoping they fill out nicely. Doesn’t feel right.” Seed was getting impatient – while he could appreciate a rare kind of grape grown in the volcanic soil of the Island Nations’ farthest corner, he would get that buzz from anything else, too; but Culgan, he was taking his sweet time in weighing different options, different grapes and soils and vintages, having a glance at the colour before he finally made his choice.

“Well, you gladly drink anything without asking, so with that line of logic, what does that make you?” Said the man who, so protectively, grabbed a Kanakan Red older than himself in his clutches. Seed scoffed, point taken, and let the connoisseur make a choice for him as well before heading back to their sleeping quarters. The sun had not even set, but Seed envisioned a paper thin, quick rush of wine before supper – perhaps a glass or two to facilitate the thoughts that had occupied him for a while now, thoughts that he wanted to share with someone who he knew would give him an honest answer.

“Do you feel it, too? That something’s ‘bout to happen?” It was not what he would yell in public, but it was certainly nothing to make Culgan’s hand falter as he poured two glasses in the comfort of his and Seed’s shared quarters. Seed downed his immediately to quench his thirst – he had serious doubts about the water system of the capital.

“There’s always some unrest, but it has been eerily calm lately. If Jowston wants to pick a fight, they don’t need us for it.” Culgan did not stay far behind himself, and opted for a prompt refill for both. He was usually careful with both his words and his wine, yet now, Seed could sense that he was on edge more than usual. Perhaps he was not just imagining things, then.  

“And there we have a bunch of low-hanging fruit.” For emphasis, he took a handsome bite of the apple he had grabbed on his way to the barracks, and winced at the clash of the dark wine and the fresh green fruit in his mouth. He spat away the apple, glad that he did not miss the flower pot while Culgan was in the firing range.

“A decent strategy, yes, but I’m afraid Lord Luca is not the type to stand under the tree waiting with his mouth open. He’ll want to shake the tree, too.” Culgan removed his overcoat and gave his shoulders a creaky, obviously pained roll, then hopped on his bunk and fished out a book from under his stack of pillows. From the little Seed had seen of him the past week, he had been cooped up in the military library, studying or perhaps accounting, and Seed was certainly curious whether this had anything to do with the odd feeling he had. He threw himself on the bed next to Culgan, feeling the burn of a most disapproving glance at his greaves that carelessly landed on the white sheets; but, like Culgan often did, he let it go. Peace was making him soft, it seemed, and Seed was not sure whether it was a good thing.

“What’s that?” he inquired, tilting his head to see the cover, and cringed at the title ‘Advanced Rune Magic’. He did not believe any of the True Runes could read, but Culgan seemed to be of the faction that believed that runes could unconditionally obey their wielder. There were many things where Culgan bested him, but magic was not yet one of them; from what Seed had seen, he mastered his well, but it seemed that he had hit a snag with his Thunder. Not that Seed could do anything to help him with it; he believed it would come naturally, if it was meant to be, but his words had previously earned him a shoulder colder than the usual.

“ _If two souls are united, two runes are united, and their ultimate power is unleashed, a power greater than the sum of the parts is generated_. Tell me how this is possible,” he muttered from behind his book, earning a puzzled look from Seed.

“I thought all this dry humping was making my sword rusty, but if it makes _you_ turn to naughty books, it’s really bad.” Bodies could be united, quite easily and pleasantly so, but souls? It sounded like old wives’ tales to Seed, and he did hope that Culgan’s _how_ was more of a _how can this crap be published_ rather than _how can I make this happen_.

“Language, Seed.” Culgan glanced at him from behind the book, hitting him with his best imitation of General Cunningham; or, rather, General _Cuntingham_ , as Seed had dubbed the revered war hero in his younger days. Years ago, just once, he had made Culgan _giggle_ , and that memory he still treasured every day that the man lived without as much as a hint of smile on his face.

“Guess we’ll miss it when it’s gone.” In idle, slightly intoxicated stupor, his body warm from the fight, he let his head roll to rest on Culgan’s shoulder. It reminded him of the best post-coital languor, though with the addition of clothes, and the presence of someone he did not need to send off with a purse full of coin or a heart full of foolish hopes. Courtship did not go well with the life of a soldier; few seemed to appreciate his calling in times of peace, and battlefield had its constraints.

So, there he was, happily rotting away by Culgan’s side in a silence he had grown to find comfort in. When he was not pining for the thrill of the blade, he did enjoy these slowly fleeting afternoons, that turn of time when the man’s large, strong hand absent-mindedly came to caress his hair; that bastard mane inherited from the alleged beast of a father he never met. It had earned him ridicule, superstitious gazes, unsolicited advances from old, disgusting men who grabbed it as if it was as common a property as those long, flaming locks of foreign harlots. Those were men who whispered nauseating proposals in his ear and neck, and boy, he would fight back until bloody and exhausted, but there had been a time when his luck and vigour had failed him.

It had been Culgan to stop the other man’s hand, and, later, the one who stopped _his_ trembling hand hovering with a razorblade above his ear. “You’ll regret this,” he had said, and stood with Seed too let the colour red triumph once again, on both occasions. He and Culgan both had had a run for the nearest bucket at the sight of his offenders thrown at Prince Luca’s mercy, his display of terror and discipline as he made damn sure that the men would not swing their hands or their pricks in the direction of young soldiers or anyone else for that matter. Now he was very much wiser what kind of meat they fed the wolves with.

Culgan had certainly earned the right to touch his hair, and when his guard was down from wine or weariness, he gladly exercised that right. He shifted on the bed underneath Seed, looking slightly pained, and Seed could tell miles away that Culgan’s back was ailing him again. “That stick up your arse reaching all the way up to your back?” he asked with honest concern, but was only given the finger in return, and Seed was certainly close to dying of boredom if that was the single funniest thing he had experienced in a time longer than he cared to remember.

“That’s the price of peace. Makes us drunk and decrepit.” Culgan sighed, and reached for his glass to submit to the first part of his fate, just as Seed cracked his knuckles to prepare the cure for the other. If there was anything worth remembering from the first and last time he visited Madame Phero’s establishment in the outskirts of the capital, it was how they revitalized a stiff back in the New Armes Kingdom. Well, some parts of it at least--  

A loud banging on the door cut his train of thought before he had even offered to rub down the persistent ache. Both he and Culgan jolted off the bed and scattered, Culgan to pull up his boots and Seed to open the door. Whoever it was, they had better knock next time.

“Get your asses to the war room. Now.” Solon’s figure was gone well before his booming voice, the door left ajar, and without any explanation. It was enough for Seed to sober up completely, and realize the severity of whatever was ahead from the sole fact that he had never seen Solon with his hair down like that before.

“Sounds like you’ll get to wipe that rust off your sword soon.” Through the layers of apprehension in his words, Seed could see that rare spark of purpose in Culgan’s eye as he gathered the rest of his gear. A shame that his quest for the fabled union of souls and runes that followed would come to a halt now; though, perhaps, it would do him good to let go of theory and embrace the hands-on learning experience, whatever that may be.

“Nice,” he replied, smacking his lips and running his hand through the locks Culgan had tousled entirely out of shape. This time, as at any other occasion, he was glad that he had listened to the man who convinced him that cutting it off would make wearing a helmet extremely unpleasant, and that he would literally look like a prick with a bald head.

He was never into helmets, anyway, and as the war between Highland and Jowston reignited, he would ride without, his flaming red hair as his only banner on the battlefield.

 

~~~~~~~~

 

Seed, as he had hoped and predicted, had certainly got his wish to an extent. He was at his element, better and stronger than ever, but his body kept pushing out the remains of the poison he had been exposed to and making him sweat and shiver in turn through day and night. On horseback, on the battlefield, he would not notice, but for the past week, he had been camping out in the outskirts of Greenhill and waiting for the city’s provisions to run out and the citizens to turn against each other and their mayor, so valiantly missing in action. The Atreides brat’s tactics were certainly different the previous General’s, and Seed’s patience with his presumptuous ways was wearing thin.

“I’d kill for some refreshment and a bath.” Hell, if there was something he did not appreciate about the life he had chosen, it was the occasional requirement for patience. The siege was making him restless, and despite all his pacing up and down the tent, Culgan was in no mood to entertain him. He was infuriatingly wise in using his spare time, polishing and sharpening his gear, studying and preparing for whatever scenarios he had devised. Not rabbit hunting or horse whispering, like Seed. 

“I have no doubt you would. But given the recent development, I cannot possibly let you go alone.” It was not Seed but rather his sword that Culgan replied to, polishing its blade with a cloth. Seed had watched him do the same every night, and just as before, there was nothing to polish since the whole division had camped down. Or perhaps there was indeed – the blade, he recalled, had last touched the neck of the rat that got away _because of him_ , and the thought made him groan out loud.

“You’re not letting it go, are you?”

“Rather hard to let go when I held you through the hours and hours you spent vomiting blood and, even worse, had to explain how the hell we let a Harmonian spy get away.”

Seed had to admit that this was the part that Culgan was handling with remarkable grace; since he first opened his eyes after the incident, he had not heard a word of reproach from the Mad Prince or anyone else for that matter. Culgan, however, must have received his share, but would not show it, and for this, Seed felt genuinely bad. There was no telling whether he would have ended up like Solon Jhee – crucified for one single mishap despite his solid record – and the truth struck him down yet once again.  

“Point taken,” he muttered under his breath, but Culgan would not listen as he was already making his leave, his speckless sword sheathed. “Hurry up and we might make it before nightfall,” he yelled back to Seed, who hurried to grab his blade and followed the general out of the camp. The looks his and Culgan’s soldiers cast on him were on guard, their salutes frightened, and he put what little acting skills he had in use to make it seem more of an innocent sneaking out than anything else that might affect the lives of these brave, poor sods.

The sky was turning pink and purple from the looming sunset, and perhaps a promise of more. Culgan had chosen the road less travelled, certainly complete with thorns and ticks preying on any expanse of uncovered skin, and despite that, Seed happily swung his blade around like a pendulum to weed the path before him. Who knew if he would find the Harmonian rat somewhere there, eaten by carnivorous plants, soon one with the earth; and even then, he would rejoice more at the glistening lakeside now spreading out in front of him.

He undressed, sloppily dumped his clothes and armour on the ground, and waded through the algae into the pond. The water was clear, cold, and still, very different from the deep and roiling Dunan. He found the perfect spot for bathing, the water to his mid-chest and a large rock to lean on. He beckoned Culgan to follow, but the man, always quite the sceptic, was still busy hiding his sword and clothes in a bush that looked suspiciously carnivorous. Whether he was wiser through experience, having run after a clothes thief in the buff like that, Seed did not know, but he had the impression that the brazen thief would have stumbled upon his feet from a single look behind. Armour did not a general make, but rather the truthful testament in the flesh underneath.

“I thought you’d be grey all over.” He shared his surprise with Culgan, who looked at him as usual – deadpan, a little disappointed, and certainly more preoccupied with other things, such as the water temperature that seemed not to please him at all.  

“I am wondering what or who gave you such impression,” he remarked sharply, and, truthfully, Seed did wonder the same. He also wondered what had made him take note of this right now. Perhaps it was the poison still roaming his bloodstream, making him see or re-see things, and no other reason that he might have had to look and comment on his comrade’s privates. 

“Right, so old age it is. But that means you were old already like ten years ago.” He raised his arms in a sign of peace and leaned back on the cold, soothing surface of the rock behind his lower back. This would be the most relaxing scenery, if he had a glass of wine in hand and if he were not alone in enemy territory. Pah, there was no soul in sight, merely the quiet chirp of birds and the distant fires of the military camp, and the quiet ripple of the water as Culgan sought for the second-best bathing spot. If he wanted the best, he would have to fight for it, and he would do nothing as base as to fight a convalescent over it, would he?

“Must have turned grey from fright when you came in to terrorize the Wee Wolves Brigade.” Culgan could hardly hold his contempt at the previous name of the Unicorn Brigade, but a glint of warmth flashed in his eye for a moment. Even he had been young back then – still himself, but slightly less cynical and cautious – and, despite Seed clashing swords with him over the smallest of things, it had become evident after a few exchanges that they would be inseparable in both good and bad.

“Fair enough.” Seed let out a long, satisfied groan and let the water around him soothe his weary, recovering body. He would close his eyes and let the nearing night wash away his unrest, if it were not for the dark shadow by his side, radiating heat and scent of battlefield above the surface. He felt Culgan’s watchful stare drilling through his skin, judging him, ready to poke at anything he might do or say that would disturb _his_ inner peace.

But Culgan, stoic as ever, stood still as a lighthouse, unaffected by the ripples around him as Seed dipped his head down to cool his cheeks and wash his hair, swirled it around, sending hundreds of small missiles his way. The most Seed got out of him was a reluctant toss of a bar of soap he had smuggled from home. Seed knew that the bar would be promptly disposed of should he apply it directly to the areas in need of cleansing, so he placed it on the rock and proceeded with extreme caution under Culgan’s watchful eye.

Culgan’s slate gaze fixated on the purple wound on his chest, his face in a frown deeper than the perpetual one. Seed did not think his scar extended that far down, though, but when he double-checked, Culgan was already immersed in his own bath routine on the other side of that rock.  

“Not quite like the bath house at the fort, but to me, this is a kind of luxury.” Culgan, striking a conversation that was not a question, a reply or anything with informative value, was a sound as rare as a griffin’s cry to Seed. To think that he had lived to witness this day! Yet he fully agreed; even this particularly placid moment held a promise of something more to happen, and even the darkening sky and the rising wind caressing his wet hair made him burn with life he had not felt in a while.

“Me, I only feel alive on the battlefield. And even you got that spark in your eye again.” He grinned, catching that spark – or softening - in Culgan’s gaze, the corner of his mouth curling slightly upwards.

When the sky burst open in a very localized downpour, Seed saw that spark again, but this time, not in Culgan’s eye but the horizon behind him flashing with thunder. Water and thunder did not mix, despite what Culgan’s holy book might say, and even Culgan gave in to the truth as he dashed out of the water to pull on whatever wet clothes and slippery armour he could muster. Seed half laughed, half cursed under his breath as he poured the water out of his greaves, and when the thunder rolled nearer, he was already on the run towards the camp.

If battlefield was where his heart beat the strongest, then episodes such as this one came a close second. Enveloped in the fresh scent of pine, cradled in the forest’s deep and dark bosom as he ran up the path in Culgan’s wake, pinecones and rocks sent flying under the heels of his greaves--

“Bugger!” When Culgan cursed, things were _bad_. In the dark, his remaining senses were sharpened; he could _hear_ metal ripping flesh open, _smell_ the blood and feel the thump of the ground when Culgan hit it downhill. Culgan was already peeling himself from the ground, from what Seed presumed to be a steel trap. “You okay?” he inquired, but the man hurried on to escape the cold, pouring rain.

If it were up to him, he would gladly watch the entire forest of Greenhill burn into a crisp, and toast to it like there was no tomorrow. This forest had made fools out of both him and Culgan. Fucking Greenhill – if he were to decide, he would have headed straight to Tinto to get a hold of the impoverished mines, and not toyed with this pitiful student town. Tinto, or Matilda, or anywhere with an army that could give a decent fight – definitely not Greenhill.

The guard on duty saluted them, but paid no attention to Culgan’s limp and his wound – Seed made a mental note to request another addition to Luca Blight’s collection of heads – and let the two proceed to their tent, set up within a respectful distance from the rest of the tents and complete with luxuries such as straw mattresses and a stove.

Culgan, contrary to his usual cautious self, paid no mind to check the tent for intruders or lost items, but slumped down on the stool in front of the stove, his position betraying a thick crimson stain seeping through and spreading on the wet white fabric of his slacks. Seed frowned at the sight, and turned on his heels to get help, but Culgan’s voice stopped him in his tracks better than any blade would.

“Don’t call a medic. It will cause unnecessary agitation.” While he understood perfectly why, he still frowned. He knew the man well enough to know this hurt like hell, and that the wound was deeper than he led on. Something had to be done now, and by him, since Culgan could be a stubborn son of a bitch if he wanted to and bleed to death in his pride.

“This is starting to look bad. Stay there and press on it.” Seed rummaged through his satchel in search for a needle, but found no thread. Culgan was not squeamish, far from it, but this was a task for him, now. With a grimace, he plucked two long strands of hair of his own and threaded the needle with them.

Culgan, now stripped from the waist down, had reached for a bottle of spirits and already offered a generous mouthful for both himself and his wound, in that order. The man certainly had his priorities right where it mattered. Seed claimed a drop for himself to wet the needle with, then held the needle over the fire to disinfect it as well as he could in these circumstances.

He did not have to tell Culgan to bite his fist; he suffered in silence, a pearl of sweat coursing his furrowed brow as he endured every sting of the needle, every itching inch of the thread passing through his taut flesh, every struggle Seed had with the needle not piercing the skin where he wanted it to. The scar would be far from pretty, but he should live long enough to have plenty of opportunities for a more handsome cover-up. Not until the moment he let go of the needle, he noticed the violent trembling of not only his hands, but of the rest of his body. Adrenaline or cold, his soaked clothes were not helping, and neither were Culgan’s.

“We need more heat.” Culgan, completely ignoring his freshly sewn wound, knelt at the stove and gazed at Seed expectantly. Yes, he was expecting him to call on his minor rune of Fire for aid, but as fate would have it yet again, he had been rash and used it too soon while still in recovery. Their flints, too, were soaked, and any incinerable material within reach he would rather keep under his back for the numerous nights to come.

“Well, I’ll be sweating buckets any time now, so help yourself to my blanket.” The death glare Seed received in return for his gracious offer was certainly cold enough to save him from that horrible fate, but Culgan, leaning on his good leg to stand up and take off his remaining garments, looked like he would certainly need the blanket.

The lanterns cast a whole another play of light and shadow on his toned body, a work of art born of years of self-discipline. Again, Seed found himself staring for longer than appropriate, but when discovered, he played it down by undressing himself and flexing with an emphasis. He had not seen himself in a mirror for months now, and he doubted that the blade of his sword would offer a good enough reflection of whether he was anything to compare from the backside.

Had his gaze strayed a little longer, he could have ignored the glaring, crimson constellation of lacerations across Culgan’s back. He did not recall had not seen those marks before, and they were recent, barely scarred in the dim light of the tent. A hazy memory resurfaced in that compartment of his mind he wished to lose completely during battle; through his fever and swollen, closed eyelids, he remembered a breeze in the tent, distant drumroll and the even more distant sound of lashing. No screams, no cheers; silence had lulled Seed back to unconsciousness for a time longer than he cared to recall, and when he had come to again, he had found Culgan by his side, his head immersed the same book on advanced rune magic, as if nothing had happened.

Culgan had been scourged as punishment for _his_ mistake, and the thought made him sick to the stomach. He wanted to apologize; not to that poor, mutilated back, but to his stern face, as much as it would hurt. He could still hide his shivering, but the hairs standing on end on his arms betrayed the creeping cold.

“Get over here before you poke someone’s eye out.” The large lump, wrapped in two blankets, spoke from the straw mattress closer to the stove and tapped to the narrow unoccupied space by its side. Body heat, yes – second only to fire, Seed thought, but he knew that Culgan, the infamous blanket hog, would not give up the second blanked that easily. Fortunately, the solution spread before his eyes, hanging from the central pole of the tent, and not even a _don’t you dare_ from that big miserable lump could stop Seed from claiming his makeshift blanket and crawling into the bed with the tattered, bloodstained flag of Highland.

Back to back, the two waited, trembling in the cold, until Seed felt humbled enough by the human need for proper warmth and turned around, curling against Culgan’s body. There, much better, like the perfect puzzle piece against another, if only the hands were not a problem. Squashed between his aching chest and Culgan’s back, or one of them paralyzed under his weight, or freely round the waist; all equally awkward options, but with little hesitation and a grand gesture, he slapped his arm over Culgan’s side and let it rest there as a deadweight.

“Still feels like luxury to you?” he asked, his only response being the sound of Culgan scratching some part of himself that was touching the dry, itchy straws of the mattress. Well, at least he could have it far worse than the steady beat of another heart against his chest, arms and sides warm as a furnace. Seed was uncomfortably aware how his body was dangerously close to the other, but the more he tried to keep his distance, the more he found himself squirming against Culgan’s body and stumbling into its marvels. He was mesmerized by how insignificantly small but important the details that distinguished the other man’s body from his were; his arms pleasantly evenly built from wielding a two-hander, an unfamiliar cryptography of scars sprawling across his arms and sides; lines across his stomach so clear-cut and even that they could be squares of a chessboard; his colours, so different from Seed’s—

He flinched, but his reflexes were slower than Culgan’s, who seized the errant hand in place and leered over his shoulder just enough to quell the apology tickling on Seed’s tongue. His eyes, dark and profound, exorcised the cold out of Seed’s body; and Seed felt the same electricity, the same earthquake that had shaken the last shreds of his consciousness before he blacked out and woke up in the field hospital. His Flowing rune was burning in his hand, letting off a faint glow against Culgan’s pale skin – and the Thunder rune was reacting in the same way, much to their mutual astonishment.

He did not know who initiated it, whose blade drew the first blood or whose territory was first violated, but he found himself engaged in a starved kiss, his fingers locked with Culgan’s; a cold hand grasping at the nape of his neck, fumbling for wet strands of hair, slipping further down his back. Each of the shivers down his spine sent him deeper into the embrace, and Culgan’s body against him ceded to gravity, falling on his back under Seed’s weight.

“Forgive me. I’ve gone too far.” He averted his eyes, blushing – and not the kind of rare flush Seed had seen wine bring upon him, and this discovery made the beating of his sore, scarred chest delightfully painful. For someone who had gone too far, Culgan was certainly holding him tight, not only with his arms but with how the rest of his body pressed against Seed’s, in a way he had thought obsolete these long months on horseback. He _did_ try to dodge this, honest to the 27 True Runes, but maybe not hard enough. Or, well.  

“Look, my balls are freezing off and I haven’t used them in more weeks than I can count. A smaller nation would’ve fallen already.” He swore Culgan raised an eyebrow, glanced down and scoffed at his choice of words.

“Firstly, learn to count, and secondly, I did not let that Harmonian rat get away to hear of your balls.” His hands latched onto Seed’s shoulders, and Seed responded with sinking his fingers in his hair. It looked _and_ felt like fine spun silver, and when his thumbs ran small, gentle circles in it, Culgan sighed and closed his eyes for a stolen moment.

“Why, then?”

Culgan’s gaze pierced through him, burning stronger than the poison his body was still fighting; and he struggled to formulate a reply, but he took way too long for Seed to accept any kind of answer. Not on what would soon become another battlefield, in the bosom of enemy forest, the place where Culgan pulled him back from the abyss of death; not when he _felt_ that he was not alone in this predicament.

His tongue was fumbling for caveats of any kind – nothing will change, just this once, help a friend in need, as if nothing ever happened – but his lips would reject those foul-tasting words one by one and let them slowly dissolve on his tongue, or Culgan’s, in his thirst. It was not the kind of thirst he had after a day’s work, but the kind following weeks of famine, where all this excess and yearning would turn his stomach upside down from the first mouthful.

 _Nothing, once, happened_ – he did not believe in absolutes, not in his world where the dirt of the battlefield turned both black and white into grey, and where red united both. _Friend -_  years had stripped away the meaning of such a word, confused it with his fellow soldiers, people he would drink with, and fight with, but certainly not people to share the story behind his eyes or his uniform.

He would not call Culgan his friend – it would be a gross understatement, but if there was a pedestal higher than that, Culgan would make it his priority to remind Seed that he would need a ladder to see it. Time after time, he found himself gravitating towards the man’s company in all things mundane and remarkable, weathering his constant needling and the perpetual stick up his arse, and it had long ago dawned on Seed that he was bound to his companion for life, in good and bad.

If that were the case, then would anything like this be enough to break those bonds, or would those bonds break if he did nothing to chain himself tighter to this man in the storm that certainly was coming Highland’s way?

The Highland flag fell down his back and shoulders like a forsaken cape, no longer a blanket to bind him as he gasped for air, disoriented; it had been too long since a hand other than his own had held him, in the iron grip of calloused knuckles and silky fingers, circling teasingly around the tip. It had certainly been longer since he had felt another man’s throbbing pulse against his, gauging and measuring, begging for it.

“It’s getting a little crowded in here,” he murmured, shifting his weight over and over to relish the delightfully bruising hardness digging into his inner thigh. He was a soldier, versed in the art of both defence and offence, and he would gladly play the role of either sword or scabbard in this game. Hell, there were very few things he had any capability left to say no to in this madness, this emergency of his vital and less vital organs, and he let his hands roam lower in search for an invitation – or an order.            

“We may have a long ride ahead tomorrow.” The tone of Culgan’s voice, coupled with the iron grip that now printed deep bruises on Seed’s behind, turned his initial disappointment into heated anticipation. Certainly, in this situation, only parts of either him or Culgan would be as accommodating as a woman’s, and both had suffered enough embarrassing injuries for the rest of this campaign. In any other circumstances, yes – but in any other circumstances, he would not be here, escaping the pouring rain and thunderstorm in the scarred, secure arms of the man he would perhaps call his soul mate if he had any kind of firm opinion on souls. Speaking of firm…  

“Oh, so now we’re not sieging anymore?” His inquiry earned him a slap on the cheek, one of the far paler pair of them, and he hissed in electrified delight. He was curious to see who he was up against, the calm, collected stalwart that he knew, or someone else entirely; and so was Culgan, grabbing him by the nape of his neck and claiming his mouth yet again, to make him swallow that impudent remark.

“Let that Atreides brat prove himself while we run him a little errand elsewhere. Even I am tired of this, and _you_ are just unbearable like this,” he mouthed against Seed’s eager lips, his hands forcefully traversing every expanse of the body that was ripe and rightfully his for picking. Whatever it was that Culgan had in store for tomorrow that involved a sore behind, he would gladly accept; he had weathered Seed’s complaints bravely thus far, and if he had decided to indulge him just a little, he deserved nothing but the best.

“Where are we heading then, _General_? South?” he said, pausing to lick his lips, his knee nudging between Culgan’s thighs for emphasis. Yes, his compass was certainly pointing north, but, fair enough, perhaps his sense of direction was as atrocious as the man led on. Somewhere behind the rushing of blood that filled his ears, he heard a content hum of approval, and the tacit cue from those hands that so kindly ordered him to regroup.

He was a soldier, and not a snake dancer, for a reason; several of his joints crackled in protest as he hauled himself to the side, straws prickling him all over his bare behind as he shifted to find himself 180 degrees from where he started. Boy, this quite awkward and certainly not romantic in any way, but he had passed the checkpoint between want and need and wound up here, where the revered Highland flag now lay in a damp pile at Culgan’s feet and where the more contemplative man of the two was well past hesitation.

A guiding hand came to rest on the small of his back, another keeping him in check as Culgan kissed him, painted the contours of his manhood with his tongue, tested him with the slightest hint of teeth, and Seed shivered. Despite knowing this man for a rough decade, he would not quite know what to expect – where Culgan was not a brilliant tactician, he mastered both siege and ambush and everything in between. He was cautious, sometimes excessively so, but at least his head was not adorning the western garrison’s flagpole, heavens rest the poor fucker’s soul. No, indeed his head felt very much alive, and between his morbidly wandering thoughts, Seed moaned with every inch of skin that the man memorized with his wet, inviting mouth.

He could feel the dry corners of his mouth cracking slightly as he opened his mouth for the clean taste of salt and starch, so faithful to his touch. If it had eluded him before, now he knew that he was not just imagining it; not the distantly familiar fire within pooling in the pit of his stomach, and not his jaw aching with lack of recent practice with any or this cock he was more than pleased to make acquaintance with.

Culgan was not in any position to engulf him completely, but, by the 27 True Runes, did he make up for his handicap with his tongue - and his fingers. Had he already forgotten about the prospect of riding? Or perhaps he remembered, and would make sure Seed would remember, too. Seed shuddered in what could only be pleasure out of pain, and the pain he experienced was not from Culgan’s hands or his mouth, but from how he was deprived of the man’s face as he sucked him _hard_ , and from the thought of whether this had been how he had obtained those ridiculously sculpted cheekbones.

Nearly choking on his own laughter more than anything, and, emboldened by the tangible reaction he was getting, Seed took him deeper, to the hilt, only a deep, guttural moan away from gagging. His elbows were braced but quivering, his soaked hair obscuring what was left of his hazed vision, and he grasped the crumpled flag as if it were his lifeline as he let himself be dragged closer to the abyss. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he tried to keep himself grounded, knowing anyone, no less the enemy, could enter the tent unbidden despite him biting his lip – among other things -  with every sound he made; yet this was far too beguiling, the mutual fire of being needed _and_ wanted at the same time beyond any control now to heed such things.

He finished with a muffled growl, on Culgan’s chest, in time to hear the distant echo of his climax as he drew in the last of him, grasped him by his trembling legs to ride this man-of-war out of the storm.

A drawn-out groan rekindled his awareness, and that he had collapsed on top of Culgan’s freshly patched up thigh. He wondered if there was anything on him that he would remember Culgan by, something to match the brand made by his wavering fingers and flaming hair. If there was, it was deeper than any of the faded, nameless cuts across his body that he could not tie to any wielder; and if it was deeper, he hoped for the sake of justice that it was just as ugly as the one by his hand.

He crawled to Culgan’s side, curled up against him, only to be claimed in a slow, possessive kiss. It left him breathless, a rich harmony of flavours lingering on his tongue, drained but alive. The space in between was no more; the puzzle has been shattered, but he slowly started to drift off in Culgan’s arms, stealing his slow, even breath under the crumpled, stained Highland flag.

“Hey,” he mumbled in a state of half-wake when the arms around him twitched on the verge of falling asleep, “how long do you think Greenhill will last?”

“Should be another week or so. Why?” Culgan asked, so politely, but clearly not expecting any kind of reply. For Seed, however, the concept of time had trickled down his throat already, and whether Culgan spoke of days, weeks, or years, he had his droopy eyes on the time after.

“Then, when we get back from that side quest of yours…” He leaned in for a whisper, and felt Culgan’s body tensing from his touch, then melting again when the last extent of his words reached the command centre through the thin veil of slumber.  

“Why, I never thought I’d see you looking forward to a plain siege.” Culgan smiled, and the temptation to let him believe he was only dreaming was strong, but not nearly as strong as Seed’s desire for answers.

“Well, you said it yourself, you didn’t let the Harmonian get away just to hear of my balls.” He still wanted to know why, what made Culgan put him before his father’s land, his solemn vow to crush every enemy of Highland until his very last breath. He remembered, but they, too, were still fragments – a vial in trembling hands brought to his cold lips, the same trembling hands holding his hair when he vomits blood and bile on the Highland flag he is tucked in under, the same hands clutching his when he suffers through the fever and the delusions.

“I know you would have done the same. Or, knowing you, killed the rat first, then fumbled for the wrong antidote, sworn vengeance and wept upon my carcass.” Culgan’s words, even when cut down with the heavy blade of sleep and the kind of peace a man can only attain through the throes of passion, successfully bruised his ego yet again. Seed would not let shit like that happen in the first place – if one of them were to outlive the other, it would not likely be him. The thought made him cold to the tip of his toes, but then again, Culgan was not exactly wrong either; that was what he would do, only the exact order of actions would vary, to better or worse.  

“What can I say? You know me like the back of your hand.” He sighed with a smile, taking Culgan’s left hand and kissing said back of his hand gently. He could feel the faint warmth and static of his runes against his lips, and if they could speak, perhaps Culgan’s little book could help him decipher whatever they were clamouring.

“Slowly getting there.” He smirked, and with that smirk, Seed realized that he had robbed him of a pun he did not know he could have. _Slowly_ \- like a drop of water carves in stone; after all these years, his edges should have been rounded abundantly by this man. His chest ached, and this time, it was not the poorly scarred wound. It was how _right_ it felt, how full of wonder yet so familiar and trustworthy, how his vocabulary suffered from a lack of words to describe this bond that chained him to this man. The distance to him had grown short as the sun towards winter solstice, and even in the dead of night, Seed was not looking forward to the sun at all.

“I really owe you one, Culgan.”

“I gave up keeping tabs long ago.”

“Good, ‘cause I mean to stand by your side as long as I breathe. And sometimes when breathless,” he added after a little thinking, and with a _tell me more_ , he heard that warm murmur in his hair. He felt like there was something else to say, but his eyelids grew heavy, and so did Culgan’s arm and breath on him. If Culgan truly was to divert him elsewhere tomorrow, he would have plenty of time for words, if not for anything else en route.

\---

**Author's Note:**

> After our 16 years together, is this how I thank the Suikoden franchise for making me turn out all right? I don't even know, and I've strayed so many times, but I'm here again. Thank you. (also, I was appalled by the lack of Suikoden fanfiction - there are awesome pieces out here that I did not even remember liking years back, but still)


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